If you look behind you, I will be there
by Vashtijoy
Summary: Soichiro is dead. Light goes home for the funeral. Oneshot.


The phone call was the worst part. Light had sat for five minutes, staring at the handset. (he'd spun off an unnecessary tangent, before catching hold of himself: _international calls from hotels never get any cheaper, at least it's an online phone_) He found he'd rather face Near, or even L again, a hundred times over. Better that, than pass on the news he had—

—_than to do what I have to do._

That was what broke the circle: that was when he picked up the phone.

* * *

Past midnight in Los Angeles: late afternoon in Tokyo. And a phone ringing in an upmarket home, to a woman alone and a silent girl in a wheelchair.

* * *

Sachiko is always pleased to hear Light's voice: so surprised, as if he never calls home - though he does, of course he does: every month, like clockwork. He visits, when he has time - though since the business with the kidnaps (_with Sayu_) kicked off, he's been conveniently out of the country.

She greets him with delight, not hearing the rasp Light is sure has to be in his voice - (_how can she not notice, how can she not hear, why don't other people pay attention to these things_) - only for Light to shut her down with a blank statement: _I have bad news._

His mother, slow and stupid as she is, doesn't need any more than that.

That's when the sobs start to coming through the receiver. Quiet, at first, as if she doesn't want to interrupt him, but can't keep the raw despair inside: _no, no, no._ He tries to speak, to explain, to offer comfort if there's any to be had - it's his assigned role, after all - but there's a clashing, staticky sound, and a dull thump - as if someone's dropped the receiver, and collapsed onto the floor. Sachiko's cries are growing louder - and somewhere Light is grateful, because if they stop, he doesn't know what he'll do (_have the local police alerted, except that's not the point_) and especially just at this moment, he has to know what to do.

One hand creeps over his face: he can't help it, he can't _help_. He raises his voice: calls down the phone, but Sachiko can't hear him. The frustration is choking: he needs to act, to do something, anything, but all he can do is listen. Mangled grief, and loss - and fury, wrapping around him, pulling him along like wings...

_...no, please no, please no:_ the torrent is still pouring out of the handset, muffled: black, swirling isolation, and betrayal, half a world away. Light rests his head in his arms, letting the typhoon wash over him: he wishes he could open his watch and write her down, end her suffering, silence her - and then the concept is part of him forever: he can't take it back.

* * *

It's the evening of the cremation. Light's been in the front room, watching Sayu, under the guise of reading quietly as an excuse to watch Sayu. The lights are dimmed, and the TV is chattering to itself: Light isn't watching it, and he doesn't think Sayu is, either.

In a twisted fashion, he likes to watch her. It reminds him of the people he hates the most: makes him feel alive, awake, himself, in a way he usually doesn't at home. Getting up, he crouches next to her, looks up into her unseeing face: _are you still in there? what did they do to you, to make you be like this? what if I'd realised a few hours earlier what would happen next? it was so obvious._ Picking up the glass from the table, he moistens her lips with water - gently with one finger, not with a cloth as if she's already dead.

He knows Mello is going to die for this, soon, and that it won't ever, ever be enough.

* * *

It's been half an hour since Sachiko has drifted through. Light finds her in the main bedroom - just her bedroom, now - looking out at the street, and the lights, and the clouds in the night sky. Somewhere, a crow is squawking. He waits for her to turn: a minute passes, two.

* * *

Sachiko knows he's there. She can't turn to look at him at the moment: people say Light doesn't look like his father, but he does: something around the eyes. Or he did, when he was younger, before... Eventually she speaks, without turning from the view.

"I don't think I've ever hated anybody, Light. It doesn't do any good."

"No. You told me I was too smart to go around hating people. You remember." Light has a horrible feeling he knows where this is going, yet he tries to remind his mother of happier times: to raise a smile, if not an easy laugh.

"Oh, yes." She feels so lost, alone and drifting. "I've never hated anybody. But I hate Kira."

Behind her, Light freezes. Not that it's obvious: he's been almost immobile, poised like a statue, watching her back.

Sachiko continues. Her voice, always so cheerful and welcoming and bright before, is hoarse, and rough. Barely there at all. "He's destroyed this family, Light. He killed your father" - she doesn't quite dissolve into tears - "as surely as if he'd touched him, himself. What's become of Sayu, all his fault. And—"

Sachiko turns from the window, looks at her only son. She's always been proud of Light - her blessing, her star. So gifted. So _driven,_ now more than ever. But he's lost his youth to Kira, to the battle, to the war. In mourning, he's more still and shuttered and serious than ever, but there's subtle tension in his posture, and around his eyes. A mother sees this kind of thing. Sachiko sees grief, and a hunger for justice, ageing him even more.

She loves him so much in that moment.

"Promise me, Light. Promise me you'll find him, and put a stop to what he's doing. For your father, and Sayu, and all of us." She wants to help him, to lend him strength, and purpose: to guide him on, the way his father did.

There is a long silence, before Light bows, deep, respectful, and renews his trust: _If anything happens to you, I'll make sure Kira gets the death penalty._ How naive he'd been, never thinking anything could happen to make him act on that easy, lying promise.

"I will. I'll stop him. Dad won't be able to rest properly until I do." Croaking, as if he can't speak: the week has been hard on them all.

Sachiko puts her arms around him - so tall, now, her little boy - so reserved and secret, yet just occasionally he'll come out with the most awkwardly touching things. She weeps silently into Light's shirt, and he holds her, and lets her.

* * *

Light can see his reflection in the window. Anyone stopping by, looking in, would see him comforting his mother. He approves. Except—

—he looks _stricken_. It's not a way he ever wants to see himself again, not a way it's safe for him to be able to look, and he tries to remake his face: relaxing it, holding it differently, realigning, refolding it. He gets the tension out, but nothing can shift the faintly dazed, shocked - recriminating? - glimmer in his eyes. Something about the way he holds them, the way the lids crease, is not as convincing as it was. Not under his control. Light closes his eyes—

(—_but he never understood, did he? We could have worked together. He gave his whole life, and his death, and for what? Because he couldn't do what was necessary. He couldn't kill Mello. He _should _have killed him: he's lined up nothing but problems for me with his soft-heartedness. I've done so __much, accomplished so much, and he was too small-minded to see it ... it's painful, but it can't be helped... He was a fool. Wasn't he?_)

—and opens them again.

The horrified, blank shock is gone. He resumes his own expression again, the hidden glare of contempt that passes so well for reserve, and resolve, and grief. Maybe it's all of those things: the grief not so much for the man called Yagami Soichiro, who guided him from infancy, and showed him who he should be, as it is for Light's image of him.

All boys outgrow their fathers, in the end.


End file.
